


The Right Name

by fireweed15



Series: The Future Depends [1]
Category: Class of the Titans
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, General fiction, Literature, M/M, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 14:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2195835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireweed15/pseuds/fireweed15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was far from his first time, but this certainly was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Name

**Author's Note:**

> Trans!Jay / heavy notes of gender dysphoria; written for Round 5 of the Hurt / Comfort Bingo on LiveJournal – Prostitution

If there was another way to survive, Jay surely would have taken it. There were so many would haves in Jay's life—things he would have done if he weren’t the penniless orphan of a sailor; if he weren’t very close to starvation when he stumbled into this place, half-blind with hunger; if he weren’t, in the eyes of a truly unkind world, a woman. 

He inspected his reflection in the mirror, and tried so hard to not hate what—rather, who—looked back at him, a buxom, if a little thin, young woman with short-cropped hair. He tugged awkwardly at the low neckline and the sleeves of his dress, played with the necklace at his throat, wiggled his toes in his silk slippers. None of this felt quite right, and when he thought about it, he could feel bile rising up in the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and tried to picture his perfect world—a world where he, at the very least, had been born _Jay_ , where even if he was penniless and orphaned he would at least have had other options for work than _this_ —

A quiet knock at his small bedroom's door pulled him out of his reverie, and he quickly crossed the room to answer it. "Yes?" he said, opening the door a few inches. 

Standing in the corridor was one of the girls from downstairs, and behind her was a young man, older than Jay by no more than a few years. "You have a gentleman," she said quietly. 

Jay's eyes flicked from her to the young man behind her—his bearing marked him as a soldier from the military base a few miles away. Jay nodded to the girl before opening the door fully and stepping back slightly. "Thank you," he whispered as the patron (it was probably one of the nicest words Jay had on hand for those who came to see him) stepped inside. 

The girl left, and Jay slowly closed the door behind him before turning to face his guest. When he spoke, his voice was softer, more feminine, and only to a practiced ear did it sound false. "Good evening." 

The soldier offered Jay a sidelong glance as he shouldered out of his coat. When Jay stepped forward to accept it and his uniform jacket, he noted the rank insignia, the silver bars of a lieutenant, pinned to the other's coat lapels, and a plastic nameplate that read "Cole" above the breast pocket. "Hi," the soldier replied as he gave Jay his coats and cap. 

"How may I take care of you tonight?" Jay asked, hanging the items on a hook drilled into the back of his door and carefully locking the door them a measure of privacy. _Take care of_ —such a sweet, friendly phrase for what he was going to have to _do_. 

"That depends," the lieutenant announced, settling rather comfortably on the edge of the bed. "I was told you were good, but at what?" 

"Well…" Jay sat next to him, leaning forward slightly to build the illusion of intimacy (and to afford the lieutenant a fair glance of the cut of his neckline), "I don't want to brag, Lieutenant—" Jay brushed his fingers against the other's cheek, ignoring the way they trembled (they always did at this point; once they were fucking him it didn't matter)—"but I do give the best head of anyone here." 

"Really?" The lieutenant's eyebrow's lifted toward his hairline. "And tell me—" His fingers brushed lightly over Jay's cheek, and Jay had to force himself to not recoil from the touch—"how much will the best cost me?" 

"Seventy-five," Jay replied, his voice cool, seductive—practiced. He always charged a little more than his counterparts, hoping that the price would deflect some of the potential johns who passed through his chambers. He was quick to learn that those who were willing to proposition were often inclined to pay whatever price set before them. 

"Seems rather expensive, doesn't it?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow. 

"You're paying for the best, aren’t you?" Jay reminded. Still, a part of him hoped the lieutenant declined. 

After a moment of what appeared to be thought, the lieutenant nodded. "By your leave, my dear."

Jay nodded, understanding the unspoken instructions, and began as he always did, by leaning in and kissing him, not too deep at first. As smooth as he talked, he was, as always, at the mercy of his patrons—however much mercy they deigned to afford him at any rate; beginning with a kiss allowed them to set the tone they wanted. 

The lieutenant placed a hand on Jay's waist, and Jay internally braced himself to be wrenched to the floor. The motion never came, and Jay nearly thanked him for it. He managed to still his tongue low enough to allow the lieutenant to kiss him more deeply, and to let his hands settle on his shoulders before slowly sliding them down over the lieutenant's chest, deeply envying the way his chest felt under his fingertips, before stopping at the brass belt buckle. "May I?" he murmured, breaking away for just a moment. 

The lieutenant nodded, wrapping his arms around Jay's waist and drawing him closer. Jay felt acutely aware of the way his breasts were pressed against the other's chest, but he didn't dare let himself dwell on that now. He leaned in for another kiss, deeper than before, as his fingers worked the buckle and the belt to which it was attached. When he worked the two halves free of each other, his fingers paused over the button and zipper of the lieutenant's trousers, and he could feel the growing strain of the material just below that. "Enthusiastic, hmm?" he said, voice quiet and coy. 

"Eighteen months in a—" He pressed a kiss to Jay's lips—"godforsaken desert post—" he kissed Jay's neck—"you'd be enthusiastic, too, I think." His fingers curled against Jay's waist, as though he wanted to pull Jay onto his lap. 

Jay had questions—what desert? What was posting like? For what purpose had he been stationed there?—but the lieutenant wasn't paying for conversation. Instead, he forced a feminine, quicksilver lie through his lips, a promise to make him forget all about that, as he slid off the bed and onto his knees. At that, the lieutenant stood and undid the fly of his trousers, shimmying out of them and his undershorts before settling back on the edge of the bed. His shoes, he didn't bother with; very few, in Jay's experience, ever did. 

Jay shifted a little closer, settling his hands on the other's bare hips. The lieutenant looked down at him, his heavy-lidded expression… Jay couldn't tell if it was meant to be warm or simply lustful. He didn't afford himself the time to think about it, instead pressing a kiss against the lieutenant's inner thigh. It was a stalling technique, but stalling techniques were the only way Jay could convince himself to do what he did every night. 

The lieutenant brushed his fingers through Jay's hair in a sort of wordless encouragement. As patient, as _casual_ as he seemed, his arousal was even more apparent without his trousers, and a very conditioned part of Jay's mind felt it difficult to deny him… well, what he came for. Jay considered this as he let his lips work up the lieutenant's inner thigh. No one paid for conversation, and they certainly weren’t paying for a young man, to service them or otherwise. The discrepancy was almost physically painful; he saw himself more like a client, but being born in the body he had been, he felt—and was treated—more like a decorated plaything. 

Here, Jay forced himself to stop thinking about it. When he thought about it, it always became apparent on his face, and if his client cared enough to ask, the explanations were always awkward. His eyes flicked up to look at the lieutenant, whose head was tipped back as he drew a deep, shuddering breath. He looked back down, pressing a few more light kisses against the officer's thighs as he wrapped one hand around the base of his cock. The lieutenant made a soft sound in the back of his throat, a universe sound of approval and permission Jay always took as a go-ahead to do what he would. 

Jay knew that a lot of the girls liked to ease into it, take just a little at a time; he rarely ever did that, simply because it prolonged that which he didn't want. He favored the direct approach—as he did now, taking most of the lieutenant's length in one go. The only thought he allowed himself as he drew back, running his tongue along the underside, was the gratitude that the years had desensitized his gag reflexes. 

The lieutenant gasped, and his fingers worked deeper into Jay's hair, his grip tightening. Jay felt his stomach knot up, bracing himself for the violent jerk, to be pushed forward, and his eyes flicked upward. The lieutenant's gaze met his, and he offered Jay an encouraging half-smile; when he spoke, his voice was breathy. "Just like that." His grip loosened, and he carded his fingers through Jay's hair.

Jay shifted his attention back down, the feel of the officer's hand on his head becoming a mere after-thought. His free hand settled on the lieutenant's hip while Jay worked his shaft with his mouth and tongue. The attentions were slow, but attentive, and every so often, he would pull away completely to work his lips and tongue farther up. From time to time, his hand trailed down the lieutenant's thighs and his eyes flicked up, his expression soft and doe-eyed—and he hated himself for it, for the docile façade he presented in the name of earning his keep. 

Several minutes passed in this manner, and he was certain that his inner conflicts were imperceptible to anyone but himself; even then, if the lieutenant was aware of them, he gave no indication. He made a soft, breathy sound in the back of his throat—gasps—as he leaned back, supporting himself on one arm. His feet slid against the floor, his mounting arousal causing his whole body to go stiff and his back to arch. 

He was so close to climax, and Jay redoubled his attentions, his fingers and mouth working the lieutenant's length. The only thing he allowed himself to think of was bringing him to orgasm, to finishing so that he could collect what little dignity he had left. Above him, the officer's gasps grew in volume and sharpness; his grip on Jay's hair tightened slightly, and as he gasped louder still, his cock jerked and shuddered with his climax. 

Just as quickly Jay felt his mouth fill the lieutenant's come. The years had dulled his desire to gag, but it had done little to quell his repulsion to heat, to the saline taste. This he managed to disguise with a forced faint moan of his own and, as he drew back from the lieutenant's groin and tipped his head back to choke the fluid down, a smile. 

A few wisps of the lieutenant's fair hair had fallen out of place, his breathing heavy, and he leaned back slightly with his weight borne on both hands. "You weren’t kidding," he pronounced. 

"About what?" Jay asked. 

He stood and extended his hand to Jay, as if to help him up. "That was incredible, thank you." 

Jay accepted his hand and rose, his knees protesting the time he'd spent on the hard floor. "I promised the best, didn't I?" he replied easily. 

"That you did." As the lieutenant busied himself with redressing, Jay tugged a clean handkerchief from where he kept it tucked in his sleeve and wiped the mix of saliva and come from his chin, trying not to look too disgusted with the mess on the yellowed muslin, or at himself. He didn't bother looking at the lieutenant, having learned the procedure by now—gather his few things, leave his payment and be gone. 

Judging by the footfalls on the wood (crisp military steps, even in a brothel), the lieutenant was taking his jacket from where it hung. After a moment, he looked over at Jay with careful consideration. "What's your name?" he asked. 

The words gave the brunet pause, and he lifted his eyes from the floor. His name? That was a complicated thing—of course there was the name his mother had given him (the only thing she had given him), the name a few of the other girls and the madam called him, the names he'd been called—"Jay," he answered. "My name is Jay." 

The lieutenant tilted his head slightly, and Jay bit his lip. Here he stood, very much a woman, declaring such a simple name—a boy's name? A correction, _Juliet_ , burned at the back of his throat, but before he could open his mouth to speak it—"Jay." When the lieutenant said it, it was as though he was savoring it. "It suits you." He shrugged into his jacket and reached for an inner pocket. "Payment on the dresser?" 

The familiar words pulled Jay from his stunned thoughts. "Yes, Lieutenant." 

The officer took out a slender leather wallet and counted out the bills before laying them on the corner of the battered dresser pushed against the wall. He turned to leave, but stopped at the doorframe and turned to look at Jay again. "May I see you again?" 

"Of course," Jay replied, not cordially but no other word suiting his tone. "Ask for me when you come here and someone will bring you up." 

"The same time tomorrow night then?" he suggested. 

All of it was happening impossibly quickly, and Jay barely heard himself reply, "If you'd like." 

"Until then. Good night, Jay." The lieutenant smiled, an expression better suited to an actor than to an army officer. He left, quietly closing the door behind him, before the other could return his farewell. 

Alone, Jay sat heavily on the bed, running his hands through his disheveled hair. His own name echoed in his ears; it sounded strange to hear it come so sincerely from someone else's mouth, especially from the mouth of someone he'd just—he drew a shuddering gasp, trying and failing to fight back tears, a few of them falling to the floorboards at his feet. 

Plenty of Johns had asked his name before, but he'd been the first to use the right one.


End file.
